We play another board game, then Mrs. Miller says she has to get to bed. She has to be up at some ungodly hour for her job at a diner. I’m surprised she has to work on Christmas morning, but it just shows my ignorance, I guess.
Davis decides he’s tired, too, and everyone wishes each other goodnight and starts towards their respective rooms. I shuffle awkwardly for a few minutes, waiting for instruction.
“What are you doing?” Brody asks, and gestures me over.
“Is it okay if I sleep on the couch? I don’t want to be in the way.”
Mrs. Miller rolls her eyes. “Is this the same man who mauled my son in the yard this morning? We’re all adults here, Beck. Brody’s bed isn’t large, but I’m sure the two of you can make it work.”
Davis doesn’t miss a beat. “Just try not to let the headboard hit the wall, yeah?” he says, scrunching up his face. “I don’t want to hear my baby brother getting railed.”
“Davis,” Mrs. Miller groans, smacking his arm. “Gross. Boys are gross. Why are boys so gross?”
“That’s his job, anyway,” I spit out. I’m mortified, but I don’t want Brody to think I’m ashamed of anything anymore.
Brody chokes and turns red. Davis doubles over laughing and lifts his hand for a high-five. Mrs. Miller throws her hands up as she walks down the hall.
“Oh great,” she calls back. “Now there’s three of them.”
Later, in his room, with the door closed and the house quiet, we climb onto his bed fully clothed. Then less clothed, but still not naked. We kiss, slow and unhurried, mouths exploring, hands roaming over familiar skin with new reverence.
But we don’t go further than that.
We just lie there together. Chest to chest, legs tangled, his hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades like he’s keeping me in place.
“You’re really here,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my throat.
“I’m really here,” I whisper back, and fall asleep in his arms feeling more content than I can ever remember being.
The entire holiday at the Miller’s is nothing like Christmases I’ve grown up with. There are no mountains of wrapping paper. No carefully curated tree with matching ribbon and glass ornaments. No midnight mass or getting dressed for a family meal like it’s a formal affair. No empty gestures in the form of sparkly things that cost too much money and mean less than nothing.
There aren’t even any presents under the small artificial tree in the corner. Just a string of lights and a chaotic assortment of mismatched ornaments, mostly handmade from when Brody and Davis were kids.
We sleep late and make a mess of the kitchen making pancakes from a box mix, topping them with artificial blueberry syrup and margarine. Then we have a bubble fight while we hand-wash the dishes because the dishwasher doesn’t work.
When Mrs. Miller comes home from the diner, she holds a small ham in one hand and a pie in the other, gifts from her employers at the diner. When she sets her purse down and heads back for a shower, I clear my throat. “I can head out for a while,” I tell Brody. “Give you guys some family time.” I think about finding a store that’s open to get a few things to go with that ham, not that I know anything about cooking.
Brody doesn’t even hesitate. He hooks two fingers in my belt loop and tugs me back towards the couch. “Youarefamily now,” he says quietly. “Stay.”
I don’t argue. I lay on the couch with him and watchDie Hard, because I’ve never seen it and apparently that’s sacrilege. Mrs. Miller and Davis join us.
Brody heats up the ham for a late lunch and whips up mashed sweet potatoes to go with it. After we eat, Mrs. Miller pulls a framed photo of a man who looks a lot like Davis from a shelf near the television. She dusts it off with the sleeve of her shirt, kisses the corner of it, and then sets it in the center of the coffee table like a centerpiece.
I hover awkwardly near the edge of the room. Brody pulls me over to the couch to join them. “Come on,” he says. “This is the good part.”
I sit. Mrs. Miller pats my leg and explains that when the kids were little, they did a few wrapped gifts, but she and her husband never exchanged gifts. Not the material kind, anyway. When the kids got older, it became a tradition for the whole family to sit around the photo of Mr. Miller and justtalk.
Mrs. Miller starts. She rests her fingers lightly on the frame.
“I’m grateful for another chance with my oldest son,” she says, looking at Davis. “I’m proud of you. So proud. I know how hard it is. I know you could have chosen the easier path, and you didn’t. That means more than you know.”
Davis ducks his head, brushing his thumb over the coin in his palm.
“I’m grateful Brody came home,” she continues, turning to him. “Even though I didn’t want to hold him back. I wanted him to have that space. That fresh start we couldn’t give him here. But having him closer…” Her voice wobbles. “Selfishly, I’m glad.”
Brody leans over my lap to hug her, because I ended up between them.
Davis goes next.
